


an apple, cleft in two

by Isis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Secret Identity, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alayne Stone is not who she seems to be.  She is not the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an apple, cleft in two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alianne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alianne/gifts).



> This story is consistent with book canon (so far), though I've played fast and loose with the timeline. Television canon took certain elements in a slightly different direction, and so this is, alas, glaringly inconsistent with events in S4 of the show.
> 
> Title is from _Twelfth Night_.
> 
> Thanks to Hamsterwoman for the quick but helpful beta.

_And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges._ -Twelfth Night

The Gates of the Moon was a more pleasant place to be than the Eyrie had been. Not that Alayne hadn't enjoyed the stunning view of the Vale, the snow and ice clinging to the mountains above, the fields and forests spread out below. But it had been cold and lonely, a small place with few servants and a harsh wind that never stopped blowing. And she could not suppress the shiver that passed through her whenever she was in the High Hall, where Lady Lysa had fallen to her death – where she herself had nearly fallen to her death. 

Here was warmth and laughter, and autumn still lingered. She could go into the yard and enjoy the sun on her shoulder, as she was doing now, or go riding with Mya and Randa in the forest outside the gate. There was a real godswood with a weirwood tree at its center; not a large one, and its face was only a few suggestive lines, but it was there, and sitting in its shade comforted her, as the statue in the Eyrie's garden had not. 

And now that Bronze Yohn Royce and his family had come from Runestone – ostensibly to visit his kin before winter's coming closed the passes, though Alayne knew he still opposed Lord Petyr Baelish's guardianship of the Eyrie and the Vale, and of young Sweetrobin. Her thoughts were in a whirl. Had Lord Yohn recognized her on his previous visit? Or was his intention to build a bond between the child and Harrold Hardyng, his young knight, as leverage to support his request to foster Robert Arryn at Runestone?

She shook her head to clear it. She was thinking like Lord Petyr now – like her father, she reminded herself. She must remember who she was, and not let Lord Yohn's presence muddle her thoughts. And it was good to think strategically. It was his strategy that would bring Winterfell back to her, if she could marry Harrold.

Not that he wasn't also a good-looking young man, she thought, watching him at the other side of the yard, laughing with one of the squires. Of course, Joffrey had been good-looking, and he'd been horrible; and Tyrion was an ugly little man, but he had at least tried to be kind to her. Maybe it was wrong of her to wish his death, but that must happen for her to wed again.

"You've got no chance with him," said a voice behind her, and she turned, her face going pink. But it was only Mya, who dropped down beside her on the bench and put her hand over Alayne's own for a moment. "Lady Waynwood'd never marry him to a bastard."

She schooled her voice to give nothing away. Nobody knew the betrothal had already been arranged. Enough gold had been promised that her supposed parentage would not be an issue. And when all was revealed.... "Of course you're right," she said lightly. "But I can look, can't I?"

"Can't stop us from looking," said Mya, grinning.

The man Mya Stone had loved had been married off to Lord Yohn's elder daughter, Ysilla, who had come with the others despite her swollen belly. Mya's resentment of this seemed to radiate off her in waves whenever she was around them. Fortunately for all involved, Mya stayed out in the stables with her beloved animals as much as she could, while Ysilla kept to her room much of the time, sending her young maid Janyce out for the things she needed.

Her mistress must not have needed her at the moment, for Janyce was also in the yard, sitting on the ground in a patch of sun, carefully stitching something that lay across her lap. She was a plain thing, but small and quick, and as Alayne watched, the girl looked up at Ser Harrold with a soft look of adoration on her round face. Then Janyce's head turned toward the two girls on the bench, and Alayne saw a look of envy cross her face before she dropped her eyes once more to her needlework.

"Lady Alayne." She looked up; it was one of the guardsmen. "Your lord father would like to speak with you."

"Of course." She said farewell to Mya and then stood to follow him to Petyr Baelish's office in the west tower.

"My lord," she said, dropping a curtsey.

"Alayne, come here." He nodded to the guard, who closed the door.

Obediently she came to him and gave him the kiss he demanded. On the mouth, as brief as she could make it, before drawing back and casting a meaningful glance at the door. For that was the other reason she was pleased to be at the Gates of the Moon, with Nestor Royce's family, and now the Runestone Royces as well. More people meant more eyes on them, eyes that would not be pleased to see a father behaving lasciviously toward his daughter.

"Have you been spending time with Ser Harrold?" he asked her as she seated herself beside him.

"A little." There was another lascivious one, who seemed to care not where he spread his favors. She suspected he came quietly to Randa's bed at night, from the looks they gave each other over the breakfast table, but that did not stop him from flirting with her and Mya. She'd even seen him once making a lavish bow to little Janyce, who had blushed dark red and run off to her mistress.

"Is he enchanted with you yet? No? Well, we must work on that."

"I think he _likes_ me."

"Good, good. With luck we will make him think this match is his own idea. I would have you sitting by his side at supper tonight. And perhaps you could arrange to look particularly stunning? Not that you need much help, my dear." He stroked her dyed hair, pushing it back behind her shoulder, and she was careful not to flinch. "Now, let's talk about the arrangements for this evening."

Of course none of the arrangements would be in her hands, as this was Randa's household. But Petyr wanted everyone – by which she assumed he meant Bronze Yohn and his wife Rhea – to see how well she and Ser Harrold and little Lord Robert got on together, and so she must dress a certain way, and be friendly to Ysilla and her mother, and most especially be attentive to Ser Harrold.

"Yes, father."

"Good," he said. "Though it will be difficult when you leave me," he sighed, stroking her hair again. "It is hard on a father when his daughter leaves him for another man."

"Yes, father," she repeated, but her heart gave a little jump in her chest. "Have you heard anything yet? About – the things that must happen for me to be wed?"

His hand slipped down to her shoulder, and he tugged her close to him, close enough that the fur collar he wore tickled her skin. He smelled of wine and old paper. "Not yet. There have been rumors. And things are astir in King's Landing; Cersei's in trouble, and the realm is beginning to fray at the edges. But it's too early to see how it will all shake out. Now, give me a kiss, Alayne."

She kissed him quickly again, and tried to stand, but he turned and pulled her against him with his other arm. "Haven't I taught you better than that? Bad enough that I will be losing you before I can fully enjoy you." His hand traveled slowly down her back in a caress. She couldn't help but shudder, and hope he hadn't noticed.

Suddenly something landed on her head, and she shrieked and pulled away from him.

"Alayne! How can – what's this?" His voice was still angry, but now it was directed not at her, but at the small gray mouse which had leaped from her hair onto his desk. It looked back at him, unconcerned, and delicately nibbled at one of his papers. He snatched up a heavy book, clearly intending to smash it, but it scurried out of the way, jumping to the floor and running to hide itself behind a bookcase. "Never mind. When you go, find Randa and tell her to bring me one of the cats."

"Yes, father," she said, but when she opened the door to leave, the mouse streaked past her, and disappeared.

* * *

"Come in, Gretchel," she said, when she heard the gentle knock. But it wasn't Gretchel. Instead Ysilla's little maid slipped in, closing the door behind her. 

"My apologies, Lady Alayne," said the girl, dipping a short curtsey. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "But Gretchel's been asked to help Lady Rhea, so I was sent to do your hair."

Alayne regarded her with some amusement. Janyce's own hair was gathered up and hidden under a broad white cap with red embroidery around the edges. Not a single wisp escaped around the edges.

"Do you do the Lady Ysilla's hair, then?" Ysilla's hair was a golden brown, and she usually wore it in a braid wrapped around her head. 

"Yes, my lady."

She wrinkled her nose; the coronet braid was such a matronly style. "Can you do something different with mine?"

"Yes, my lady. I know how much you want to enchant Ser Harrold."

A shiver of unease went down Alayne's spine as she sat and let the girl comb through her hair. Had it been only a coincidence that Janyce had used the same words that her father had said, earlier that day?

"It was Lord Yohn who suggested I come to you," said Janyce confidingly as her fingers began to work. It was a pleasant sensation, familiar and relaxing. "You've met him before?"

"When the lords of the Vale came to the Eyrie, yes."

"And before that?"

The question sounded as artless as the girl's earlier words, but Alayne froze. Had he indeed recognized her as Sansa Stark? Her heart began to thump in her chest. "Perhaps," she said cautiously.

"Tilt this way, my lady?" Janyce moved Alayne's head a little to the right. "I hope you like this. It's the way my mother used to do my sister's hair. I wouldn't let her do mine, though. I'd pull the plaits out as soon as she made them."

Alayne smiled. "You remind me," she began, and then firmly clamped her lips together. No. Alayne wasn't reminded of anyone. That was someone else's memory.

The girl had not noticed. She continued to prattle as she worked. "My sister would be amazed to see me now, doing a lady's hair. And I can dress a lady as well, even though I always used to hate wearing gowns. I wanted to dress like my brothers, and play games with them. I don't think my sister would recognize me if she saw me now. There, how's that?"

She had not even time to draw in a breath. Janyce's stream of chatter had battered her with the force of memory, knocked her walls down, and so she had no defense when Janyce turned her to face the glass and she saw...herself. Except for the color of her hair, it was Sansa Stark who looked back at her, Sansa with her hair plaited and put up the way her mother had always done it.

She turned to Janyce in disbelief. No, it couldn't be. She did not look at all like Arya, her face round instead of long. But she found that her mouth began to shape a question, a name; and Janyce reached out to put her finger across Sansa's lips, shaking her head, warning her not to speak. 

"It's turned so chilly now that the sun is down. You should wear your warmest clothes and best boots," said Janyce. "Oh, and your cloak. Lady Ysilla is so sorry she spilled wine on it yesterday. Let me take it to be cleaned."

Sansa frowned. She hadn't seen Ysilla yesterday.

"The stain will set, my lady," said Janyce, a chiding note in her voice. But her eyes held a different message.

As if in a dream, Sansa moved to the wardrobe and got out the thick cloak she'd worn on the journey down from the Eyrie. It made a huge bundle in Janyce's small arms.

"I'll take it with me for cleaning. You will have it back tonight, I promise." And with one more curtsey, Janyce left her chambers.

* * *

Later, she could not piece together exactly how it had been done. But she had been at the banquet when Joffrey had been poisoned – she had even been the unwitting bearer of the poison – and she had not been able to see how that had happened, either, until it had been explained to her. She was not sure it _had_ been poison, for Petyr Baelish did not collapse until after the remains of the meal had been cleared from the table, and though he was drinking wine, others had been served from the same decanter.

He did not choke, as Joffrey had done. Instead he frowned and put a hand to his chest. "Alayne, my dear," he began, in a queerly tight voice, then stopped. He looked across the table to where Bronze Yohn sat at the far end, and frowned. "I do not feel well. I believe I will retire early."

"But you promised music after!" wailed Lord Robert. He sat between Sansa and Petyr, and had been fractious all evening.

"Hush, Sweetrobin," she said, turning from Ser Harrold, who had been placed on her other side. Truly, she did not feel all that well either. Partly it was due to the heavy dress she had put on after Janyce had left her chambers. Gretchel had come in by then, and had shaken her head and warned her that she would be too warm in the hall with all the guests and the hearth-fires, but she had insisted that it was the most flattering gown she had, and that it was what her father had wanted. But just saying those words – _my father_ – had made her uneasy, as she had not felt since the first days in which they had begun this deception. They were not true any more. Sansa had looked out from the glass and stepped back into her skin, and she could no longer be Alayne Stone.

"Shall I help you, father?" she asked. The words tasted like ash in her mouth. Petyr had begun to stand, slowly, as though he were an old man. 

He shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. "No, I –" 

Then he turned ashen, and fell ungracefully to the floor, and Robert began to scream.

"Father!" She rushed to his side – she must go to him, the others would think it strange if she didn't – but Randa, who had been seated on his other side, had already bent to loosen his collar and was calling to the servants to send for the maester.

"I will take care of him, I promise," she told Sansa. "You settle the young lord, you're much better with him than I am."

The room was in an uproar. She nodded, and took Robert by the hand. He was sobbing and screaming, "It's not fair! I want to listen to the minstrels!"

"Later, Sweetrobin. For now let's go to the kitchens and see if there are cakes. They won't bring them out until later, but I want one now, don't you?" She half-led, half carried the boy out into the corridor and started toward the kitchens.

"Let me take him," said a woman's voice behind her. It was Ysilla, who already had a cake in one hand. She bent and held it out to Robert. "We will have a minstrel when your Lord Protector has been seen to."

It felt strange, letting the other woman lead a still-protesting Sweetrobin away. But she had no time to reflect on this, for a moment later there was a gentle tug on her arm, and in her ear a low, whispery voice said, "This way, my lady."

She hesitated. "Will he be all right? Lord Baelish?"

Janyce fixed her with a disconcertingly sharp eye. "Do you care?"

Did she? She shook her head. "Will his men come looking for me?"

"Let's hope not."

She followed Janyce through the door. The yard was lit by the pale half-moon, and they hurried around the edges of the yard, staying in the shadow. When they drew close to the gatehouse, Janyce stopped her and told her to wait, then slipped through the door.

A man's voice said something Sansa couldn't make out. Then there was laughter, which was abruptly cut off.

Then there was silence.

Janyce's head peered around the door, and she motioned toward Sansa to come. "Don't be frightened," she whispered.

"I'm not." And she wasn't. The guard was slumped awkwardly against the wall, a smear of blood on his cloak; but the girl who would have been frightened by this had been left behind a long time ago.

She was shivering by the time they had crossed the moat and come to where the horses had been tied, but there was her cloak, tied across one saddle, and she gratefully took it down and pulled it on. She turned to Janyce, who was swiftly and efficiently stripping off her dress and exchanging it for a dark shirt and trousers. The embroidered cap came off, revealing a short-cropped head.

"Where are we going? Who _are_ you, Janyce?"

The girl turned to her and smiled. "Not Janyce. She is dead now." And her hands cupped her face and then moved away, and it wasn't Janyce any more who looked back at her, it was...

"Arya!"

Abruptly Sansa felt tears springing to her eyes, though whether from joy or fear she couldn't say. It was Arya, her infuriating, aggravating, horrible, unladylike sister. Her sister, who always ruined things for her. Her sister, who had been missing for two years. 

Her sister, who had brought Sansa back to herself.

Arya shook her head. "She's gone, too." Her voice had changed, no longer soft and whispery; now it was deeper, rougher, and she touched fingers to her brow in a small salute. "Arry, m'lady, at your service. D'you need help to mount your horse?"

"I...I'm all right," said Sansa. She felt dazed. Her body went through the motions of getting onto the horse, and Arya – Arry – untied the reins from the spruce tree they'd been tied to and handed them to her before vaulting up into the saddle of the other horse. "Thank you. I – if my sister were here –"

She faltered, looking over at Arry. A boy with Arya's face looked back at her, a cocky, cheeky squire. "If my sister were here," she repeated more firmly, "I would thank her." Her eyes began to fill with tears again. "I would tell her that I was sorry for all the times I said she'd embarrassed me, that nobody'd ever think she was a highborn lady, that she –"

"Come, m'lady." Arry turned the horses toward the path. "There's a ship waiting in Gulltown." His horse started to walk through the trees, and Sansa's horse followed.

"I'd tell her that I was proud of her," Sansa whispered. She didn't think it had been loud enough for Arry to hear, but he turned in the saddle, and suddenly it was Arya looking back at her.

"She'd tell you that she was proud of you, too," said Arya. "Now, let's get moving. We've a long way to go."


End file.
